I open my eyes and let out a heavy skadoosh as I realize that its a full two hours before I should

actually
goberdosh. Sleep will not return to me though, so I put on my shirt sleeves, belt, lederhosen, tunic, tie
breastplate and tricorn to confront the day that awaits me. For breakfast I garb my cereal with a thick
resin of milk and Oreo os. It is distinctly disappointing. Next, I strap on my 1997 gold enamored Nikon
24-X series wrist watch and walk into the next room. There is nothing there.
I get in my Bicycle and ragatag as fast as I can down the city block into the heart of the metropolis. Once
there I find myself standing behind three other smooth talking city slickers who look sickle celled; we
make small talk, but as soon as they see the teeth in my eyes they leave. I make my way up the street,
waving a last goodbye to the charlifonts in the sky before taking the jaberflash to the 333rd floor of my
job and firmly nestling myself in a cubicalalal. The air is sweet with the odour of honeysuckle and
rosemary. Before I can even turn on my I-papplepoddod 360 NTS-soft-unit my boss is in front of me. I
have to look down because he stands a whole two feet beneath me; he has neither arms nor legs.
Charlie he says in a voice as soft as autumn rain. Charlie he says again quieter. He turns as if to leave
but a booblescoop of pain flushes across his physiognomy, and I, knowing something must be wrong, lift
him onto my lap and gently stroke his rosy cheeks.
What is it Bobob? I ask.
What am I Charlie?
Bobob, youre my Boss, and I love you, now get to work. I give a friendly smack to his buttocks with my
left index finger. His flesh is warm, inviting.
Charlie no.
Yes Bobob, you're right, the others mustn't know.
At that moment, our mutual acquaintance Dave Don Bogattello de Sprigliochi walks up. What is this
knavish mummery?
Dread lord Sprigliochi, forgive our insolence. I blurp, but it is too late. He takes Bobob out of my lap
and out of my cubicalalal, into the wide open world and whips his resplendent torso out of the 333rd
floor of the haberdashery towards the cement. The earth opens its lips to receive him, gently pushing its
frangible, gnashing jaws into Bobobs eyes, and out of his anus, as I had once done.
Bobob is dead. Bobob is dead and I will never stroke his rosy cheeklets again.
What is death? Is it a succulent dream that eats our money and our life, or is it something cheeky,
something that makes our plates rattle, and our mistakes turn to dust?
Am I Bobob? I am Dead?
Or am I the dead memory of a man who once lived? I beat my drum to the flowers of pain and pleasure
and madness that grow around me, into me. I feel them, (the flowers) onside me. Eating away at the
soles of my feet, making me itch all over. Turning every breath I take into a groaning skadoosh of ecstasy
and agony. I am Charlie no more, I am the memory of a dead man, ascending into hell, flecture si nequos
acharonte mavebo. Everything is a pale shade of green, as I march up the fibbles to deaths door. I know
what he wants from me, in his pleather armchair I know his beautiful perfect hair will terrify and contort
my existence as well as my smallest fuble hairs. Nothing is safe. Nothing is perfectly calm. I juble my

fonkers at infinity and it try to fix its greasy hair. I. Am. Scared.
And there is no I. There is only the quickly fading memory of Bobob and his rosy cheeklets. Did Charlie
(who is Charlie?) look out to see Bobobs corpse on the cement? Did he try to challenge Davy Don
Bogattello de Sprigliochi to a game of chess boxing? We cannot know, for that is not part of this
memory. Let us return then to what we do know: a man has died. That man is Bobob. A thought fades
into oblivion, it confronts itself on the mirrored precipice of existence and infinite understanding. Let us
journey then with Charlies memory into the unknown. Angels flock in chorus, the sing the sweet,
sweaty song that angels sing. Their oddly tumescent shape gliding hither and thither, betwixt and
between, and a voice speaks, raining down from the starless void of consciousness.
Do you seek to be more than nothing? It asks to a thought which cannot answer. The memory of
Bobob pleads for its life. A court of Judges dressed in their finest fiddershins descends to the stage of life
(for we are we not all actors?) to question the memory. It is wrong they say, for everything to be
remembered. Better to forget now, than to forget later. For eventually all will be forgotten.
This is true, the memory of Bobob thinks to itself. But, there is something more to life. Something
even present in the ephemeral. It cannot be touched upon, it cannot be stated in words. What is life?
What is existence? What is love? Surely these things should not be forgotten before there is time to let
them have their due impact on the soul? Is there any way stop enlightenment from crumbling amidst
the terror of oblivion, the horror of loneliness, the knowledge that no matter what we might say or think
we will be utterly alone when we die? Yes, pain is part of life, and yes, some questions can never be
answered but
But
Bobobs memory remembered an event that happened all those years ago. It was high school, the
leaves of fall were descending around him. Orange and red and yellow abounded, and the air carried the
mellifluent tones of crinkling death swirling about him. Charlie stood still in the center of his Bambador,
remembering how someone had told him that it if you listened close enough, you could hear the sound
of beating wings and angels beating off. Charlie wanted to listen, but he was late for science class. He
walked into the room with his fiddershins protruding from the top of his tricorn. He felt ashamed, and
when he looked up from the ground he saw that the rest of his class sat motionless, weeping into the
crystal basins at the bottom of their perch.
Charlie? the teacher asked, through a haze of tears. Can you tell me why?
Because He said hesitantly because there is nothing else thanthis. He gesturing about the room
with one sweep of his hand.
Only slightly. The teacher responded, wiping the blood out of his eye out with a high end jandler. You
may be seated. Charlie stood perfectly still. You may be seated Charlie. The teacher repeated, digging
the fork deeper into his eye socket. Charlie remained perfectly motionless. He knew that teachers relied
on motion to detect their prey.
The teacher moved closer, inquisitively sniffing the air around Charlie, his left eye oozing a stead stream
of blood.
Charliiiiie. He hissed softly in his ear. His tongue flitted out from behind his bittermumps. Carliiiiiee.
He hissed again, but with more ambivalence. Doooo you remember sBobob?
Charlie did not remember sBobob. The Memory of Bobob, which we are still in, also had yet to
remember sBobob. But in due time it would.

Scene 1 The Butcher Shop

[Open to stage left, a man in a waistcoat sings Schuberts Die Forelle at 222 Beats per minute. The
metronome clicks furiously beside him but the hand does not move. From the darkness behind him, a
vast indeterminate shape moves and shifts in and out from background. On stage right a puddle begins
to form, it is thick, viscous and seemingly self-generated.]
Indeterminate Blob: I would like to buy some meat.
Singer: Die ihr am goldnen Quelle, Der sichern Jugend weilt, (You who tarry by the golden spring, of
secure youth,)
Vicious black puddle: [responding politely] I have many fine cuts for you to choose from, are you looking
for quality or quantity?
Indeterminate Blob: I believe, as I am a bit short on change, I might hazard a bargain. Make certain
though, that it not be so poor a cut of meat as the last was, It wouldnt do to have the misses scold me
again.
Singer: Denkt doch an die Forelle, Seht ihr Gefahr, so eilt! (Think still of the trout: If you see danger,
hurry by!)
[Enter Charlie, Stage right]
Charlie: [to Butcher] Excuse me, might I get a cut of lamb? Im in an awful hurry.
Viscous puddle: You will have to wait your turn boy, learn to be patient!
[the puddle oozes forth a mass of hamburger, covered in its thick resinous fluids. It is quickly absorbed
by the indeterminate blob. A moment of stillness follows. Charlie shifts uneasily, waiting.]
Singer: Meist fehlt ihr nur aus Mangel, Der Klugheit. Mdchen seht (Most of you err only from lack of
cleverness. Girls, see)
Viscous Puddle: Here boy, I have your leg of lamb. [A writhing lump of meat emerges from the puddle,
Charlie lifts it up in his hands, it is heavier than he expected. A hole opens up, revealing a set of white
teeth which part to let out a scream.]
Lump of Meat: I AAAAAAMI AAAAAAAAM BOBOB! I AAAAM BOBOB! I AAAAM BOBOB!
Charlie:[softly] Hello Bobob, my name is Charlie. [Charlie smiles, and the lump of meat ceases to writhe
and scream. It smiles back, and slowly the two begin to laugh. We are witness to the birth of a
friendship.]
Singer: Verfhrer mit der Angel! Sonst blutet ihr zu spat! (Seducers with their tackle! Or else, too late,
you'll bleed!)
End Scene 1

Scene 2 Charlies Apartment

[sitting together on a love seat, the blackened eyeless torso of a full grown man slowly dribbles dark
liquid onto the pillows. Before any words have been spoken, it rolls off onto the carpet where it remains
perfectly still. Charlie seems not to notice.]
Charlie: Do you like the view Bobob?
Bobob: I have no eyes with which to see Charlie.
Charlie: Let me describe it to you then. Its almost like wellwell its like youreoh Bobob, Ive never
been good with words. Its like youre looking out a window. And, on the pane of glass, your reflection
gazes back at you. For a split second, you forget if the real you is gazing inside, from without, or outside

from within. But youre facing the wrong way Bobob, thats the carpet.
Bobob: Carpet? It tastes It tastes somehow better than I imagined it would.
Charlie: Im glad you like it Bobob. *a moment of silence.+ Say Bobob, how about we clean you up?
Bobob: Yes, it would be nice to be clean, wouldnt it? [Charlie picks up a towel and gently wraps it
around Bobob, carrying him into the bathroom. He turns on the faucet, mixing the water.]
Charlie: Is it too hot Bobob?
Bobob: No Charlieits just right. [Using the showerhead, Charlie slowly removes the black sludge from
Bobobs maimed body. A human face is revealed to us. Its eyes will never open. It remains a flawless,
apotheosis of pure innocence.]
Charlie:[astonished+ Bobob! Bobob, youreyoure beautiful! [Charlie strokes his rosy cheeklet.]
Bobob: What? Im.Charlie?
Charlie: Yes?
Bobob: Charlie Im cold. Will youwill you get in the tub with me?
[Charlie strips off his shirt sleeves, belt, lederhosen, tunic, tie breastplate and tricorn. His body is a
perfect seven, his beauty a beauty all his own. His naked, glistening body slides smoothly into the inky
waters around Bobob. Charlie cups Bobobs face in his hands and slowly, effortlessly, guides it beneath
the dark waters. Charlie thrusts his engorged penis all the way down Bobobs tight throat, and within
moments he climaxes harder than he ever has in his entire life. Bobob emerges from beneath the inky
waters, his mouth dripping with cum as he gasps for air. As he coughs violently Charlie cradles the
heaving mound of flesh on his chest and slowly, greedily, reaches his finger inside of Bobob. Bobob
gasps once more, but now for a wholly different reason. As Charlie reaches deeper inside him, all Bobob
can do is whisper softly in his ear. So soft, that perhaps Charlie cannot hear the words. Bobob begins to
climax all over his chest. The words he whispers are Charlie, I love you.+
End Scene 2

There has been much debate among scholars in the field about what it really was that Bobob
Was attempting to convey when he whispered the words Charlie, I love you. Of course, it might have
been an autoerotic response, produced by the intensely passionate nature of the situation, and indeed
there is a growing body of research dedicated to propounding precisely this. However, individuals of a
less traditional persuasion, such as myself, might venture to conjecture that Bobobs words convey
something of an altogether different nature. According to celebrated poet Byron, love trades a single
moment for an endless shower of hellfire it is a passion which can both generate and destroy.1 Thus,
when Bobob whispers his words of affection into Charlies ear, he was but repeating a question about
the timeless dichotomy of the human condition. However, there are some peculiarities whom we, the
audience must consider if we are to understand their relationship in within the postmodern framework.
In the following work, I propose to outline the three basic underlying motivations behind Bobobs
intense amor for Charlie; the superlative stance, fundamental position, and morphological idealism.
I
The Superlative Stance
Before delving directly into the theory itself, it might be helpful to begin with a brief allegory. In 1912,
1

Lord Byron, Don Juan

the Spanish throne was subject to the rule of King Phillip the 13th. His death, in the summer of that very
year, prompted a number of rebellions from all number of political parties, including but not limited to:
the socialist, libertarian, republican and anarchic groups. It was, in effect, a battleground of ideas. Now,
a certain soldier, by the name of Jack Johansen, had something of a nasty venereal disease, and as such,
he did not infrequently lose a substantial amount of blood when he chose to undergo the rather painful
process of urination. Once whilst he was in his kitchen he happened to observe a rather peculiar event.
During an interview he described it in the following manner:
A human mandible slides smoothly across a tiled floor. The pale yellow teeth are still firmly rooted in
their sockets, and each one dimly reflects the light of the sulfur bulb shining through your window. You
wonder who decided to slide the jaw, and why. You look to your right and see that I am here sitting
beside you, but something isnt quite the same. Im me but Im also not me.
I look at the jaw on the ground, back to you, and then back at the jaw on our floor. Youre eyes do not
meet my own as I gaze curiously at your strangely perfect body. What are you looking at? I ask in a
puzzled tone.
A human mandible, there on the floor, do you see it? You ask. Of course I cannot see the jaw, but I
look at it all the same and say:
Suppose I did see it just now, would like that? Would you feel that the world makes any more sense
than it already does? If you could choose to live in a world where certain unpleasant truths might be
ignored, where certain facts, certain terrors which slither and slide right behind the veil of reality would
remain hidden, would you not do so? Would lift the veil to look upon their forms, shuddering in the light
of recognition. No my friend, I think some things are best left unknown to us, some things we should
remain ignorant of eternally, for consciousness is a burden as much as it is a boon. I do not see this
mandible of yours, and not by force of reason nor by necessity of would I admit to seeing it if I did.
My words wash over you like warm summer rain in the evening. You yet you are still looking at the floor.
Im sorry, you say apologetically I didnt quite catch what you were getting at. What were you
saying?
Quite alright, quite alright, I was telling you about this rather nasty scab Ive been picking at on my left
arm, I believe its become a tad infected, what with this whitish fluid coming out of it and whatnot.
Its infected?
Hmmm?
Your wound, you said its infected?
What? Heavens no. No, I said look there to your right, its a human mandible on our tiled floor.
Sorry you say, taken aback at my words Might you repeat that?
I said this wound of mine might be a bit infected. Say are you feeling well Charlie, you look awfully
pale.
What did you just call me?
Why, I called you Charlie old chap, thats your name.
My name? Thatthat cannot be my name.
Well thenthen what is your name?
II cant remember Bobob, I cant remember. Oh god, whats happening, what is, how did I, It doesnt
make any sense. I was just listening to a story about a soldieror a war or something and then I was
here-
Charlie, Charlie, calm down. I say, my voice calm, soothing. Charlie, its alright. Ill pour you a glass of
Cognac and well hash this whole business out. Before you know it things will be right back to how they

were. How does that sound to you, hmm old boy?

Yes, yes thats fine I suppose. Ill just sit here in this chair and umyes Ill just wait for you to come back
with the Cognac. Your hands grip the seat of the chair firmly, sweat beads on your brow. What is your
real name? Are you the person you were moments ago, or is this someone new, different? Sometimes
you wonder if these thoughts are your own, or if they are someone elses. But whos would they be?
I come back with the Cognac, your glass is filled with the pale yellow liquid, it shines in the soft light of
the living room. You have all but forgotten about the human mandible in the kitchen as you rise from
the chair, eager to take the Cognac. You begin pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, you mind
riddled with questions that have no answer.
Now tell me whats happening Charlie-
Dont! You interject Dont call me that!
Alright, its alright. I say, trying to calm you. Im your friend, Im here to help you, what would you like
me to call you?
I dont know, just, just call me Benjamin, or Donald or Donavon. Anything, just not Charlie, Im not
fucking Charlie!
Okay, can we just start by having you sit down then, Donald. The name sounds wrong, a whole history
of past memories lies obliterated in the interminable wreckage of questions that have no answer.
Among them are discarded truths, one of which is your name, and it is not Donald. You sit in the chair,
your body feels heavy and your mind is racing. I am more alarmed by your sudden silence than I have
been by your words.
Perhaps this is just a momentary thing, in a few moments, it will all come back to you and we can put
this behind us. Give it time, cases of amnesia rarely last more than a few days at most. Just relax and in
no time at all youll be looking back to this event as but another memorable occurrence to put in your
memoirs eh?
You remain silent, your body sinks deeper into the chair as you take another drink of the Cognac. It
tastes hot in your mouth, its flavors and rich tones flooding your senses, ending a thought prematurely.
You gaze into the fire and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I glance up at the clock and then back to you,
our gaze meets and your lips part as you begin to ask a question. There is only silence, and then the
words form.
What is your name?
It is a hard question, but I dutifully answer.
It saddens me that you have forgotten, it really does-
Your name, tell me your name.
My name? Alright then, my name isRed and blue lights pierce through the curtains, a car pulls into the driveway and a rapport of knocks
follow each other in quick succession. You hand slips on the glass of Cognac and shards of glass scatter
across the floor. You reach down to pick up a shard of glass as I move towards the door. Tall men in
white suits stand on the threshold, men who are here to ensure you are safe.
What is this? You ask astounded Please, please dont do this, Im fine, really Im fine, and there is no
need for you gentlemen to be here.
The taller of the two men, with short cropped black hair and defined muscles speaks to you.
Sir, Im going to need you to come with us. He gestures out the door towards the van. But first Im
going to need you to drop the piece of glass that your holding, can you do that for us?
ButI dont understand there has to be some kind of mistake, there has to be-

No. Says the man who is not short. No theres no mistake, now Im going to ask you to put down the
glass sir, and then Im going to count to ten. If you still havent put the glass down then I think we might
have a problem.
You get up from your chair, fingers still pressed tight against the glass that shines dimly in the flashing
lights.
Please, can I just leave, can I justcan I just go? You ask, your heart is pounding.
One.
No, please dont do this, you dont have to do this. You look at me, your eyes are pleading.
Two.
You dont have to do this, you can tell them not to do this. You say to me, your eyes filled with water.
Three. A longer syllable than the previous, a tone of rising discomfort.
What is my name? I ask you again.
Four. You have no answer
What is my name. I ask again, my tone severe, demanding.
Five. Another long syllable
Your nameyour name is...
Six.
Yes, go on, say it. I cajole you with my mouthbits.
Seven.
Bob?
Eight.
Bob what? Bob what!? Tell them Charlie, tell the men what my name is.
Nine
I-I cant, please dont make me, dont make me. You are weeping. The shard of glass drops from your
hand and the paramedics lift your defeated body from the chair. I watch silently as you are dragged past
the entryway, and as our eyes meet for that last flickering moment, you notice I am smiling. My white
teeth gleam softly in the sulfur light that rains down from the streetlight above us. As you enter into the
stained interior of the car, you feel the pinch of a needle entering into your arm. The paramedic looks at
you softly making eye contact as he speaks to you.
Just relax, its just to help you sleep. Its alright, you can go to sleep whenever you need to.
The van doors slam in front of you. There is only darkness, and my teeth, smiling at you from the void.
As you drift out of consciousness, my face begins to lose its rigidity. The muscles slide and contort, the
grin becomes wider, the cheek bones seem to loosen, the eyes recede into their sockets and finally the
flesh melts away. The jaw bone drops off, teeth still clinging to the rotten flesh that lies beneath, and
you drift into oblivion as its grows larger and larger in size until it seems as though it has subsumed the
universe.
Bobob. Says a voice. There are bright lights being shined into your eyes. Does that name mean
anything to you Charlie?

And how do I know that, how do I fucking know that Bobob?

You remember my name at least then?

No no, you get arrested and sent to a mental ward, escape and go down the endless flights of stairs
Tell the story of the hot gas found underneath the university
Heres how it ends:
I strap on my banna glove, Butter suit, .. and xxxxx to confront the day